


Sticky Situation

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9701690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: Hey, it's Valentine's Day, so it's time for some random shippy fic! Oh, no, fandom, you'll never get rid of me!Happy Valentine's Day, fandom--y'all have brought so much joy into my life and the world at large with your creativity and love.  MWAH!





	

The voice over comm jerked Ratchet out of what had been the start of what he’d hoped to be a nice well-earned old-mech nap. “Hey, uh, Ratchet?” 

That was precisely the tone of voice designed--no, engineered--to set a decent medic’s nerves on edge.  And Ratchet was more than a decent medic.  “What did you do now, Drift?” Because with him, it was always something. 

“It’s not like that! I mean, whatever you’re thinking it is.” 

“Whatever I’m thinking it is probably pales in comparison to what it actually is.”  He was a medic, not a fiction writer--his powers of imagination could never have cooked up half what the Lost Light had been through. 

“It’s just, well...kind of a sticky situation.”

“Sticky.” 

“Yeah, look. Just a little bit of an accidental spill and...uh, I could use your help.”

“Call Tailgate. He’s the waste disposal expert.”  Ratchet’s thumb hovered over the disconnect button.  

“Yeah, uh, well, this is a little……….” one of those draw out pauses while Drift stalked the right word, hunted it down, and stabbed it in the face. “Compromising.” 

“Right.”  By which Ratchet meant ‘great’ in the sarcastic ‘I really do not want to be a part of this’ way.  “Where are you?” 

“Uh, level three. In a closet.”  A beat. “Maybe bring some kind of solvent?”

“Wh--never mind.  I’ll be there.” He would know soon enough. He could get a head start on not wanting to know on his way down there. 

Drift...really could have been more specific than ‘closet’. And Censere really could have been just a little less of a closet freak, because the corridor was downright littered with the damn things.  Rachet had opened over a dozen already, and he’d gone from jerking them open with an accusatory “A-HA!” to just wearily turning the knob.  

Though, to be honest, ‘turning the knob’ was perhaps an apt metaphor for what he saw when he finally opened the door to the right closet. Or at least ‘grabbing the knob’.  “DRIFT!” 

“I told you it was compromising!” Drift howled, trying to use his free hand to cover up the sight of his other hand, wrapped around his erect spike.  

Ratchet put his aid kit on the ground, to buy some time, and to look at something, well...not indecent. “I suppose there’s a story behind this, knowing you.”

“Rodimus told me it was lubricant.”  He sounded evenly split between defensive and protective of Rodimus. 

“That’s only part of the story,” but Ratchet could figure out the rest of that, more or less. “Where’s the rest of it?”    

Drift nudged a can with his toeplate.  Ratchet picked it up gingerly, squinting at the label. “Well, Rodimus is half right.” Half right was actually pretty good for Rodimus.  “It’s a reentry-vehicle lube. Only works that way at superheated temperatures. Anything below that…” his optics made a meaningful shift over to Drift’s spike.  

“Yeah, adhesive. Figured that out.” One of those childish frowns only Drift could manage, looking petulant and somehow endearing at the same time.  “Can you fix it?” 

Ratchet fished his ‘mildly offended’ look out of his facial repertoire. “Of course I can!”  Just enough huff in his voice to distract them both, as he turned to his kit, mumbling to himself as he rifled through the vials of solvents he’d stowed.  

“This might sting a bit,” he said, shaking up a glass jar that bubbled and fizzed with promise.  “Here.” He moved himself around Drift’s stuck hand, pouring the fizzy solvent along the spike, using his free hand to try to work the stuff into the joints of Drift’s hand.  

“Might?” Drift’s voice was a squeak, and then more softly, “OwowowowowowOWWWW!!”  

The loud part was Ratchet prying Drift’s fingers off his spike. Yeah, it probably hurt, Ratchet thought, but maybe it would teach Drift a lesson. What lesson, exactly, Ratchet wasn’t sure, but maybe it would be one that would stick. 

What? Even Ratchet could hope.  

Drift peered worriedly down over his chassis, clutching his hurt hand over his armor. “Is it going to be all right?” 

“It’ll be fine.” All that needed doing now was wiping the solvent off his spike. Which was why a good medic always, always, kept rags on hand.  

He tried to keep it clinical, but the way Drift moaned, optics half shuttering with each wipe, made that kind of hard. And something else kind of...hard, his own spike throbbing grumpily under its cover. 

Well, misery and forced abstinence loved company. Or something. “Probably need to leave it alone for a few decacycle.”  

“A whole decacycle?!”  Drift wailed. 

“Fine. At least a day.”  Seriously.  Drift wasn’t that much younger than he was, but had the libido of a...well, a frisky mech.  

Drift pouted. “Gonna be a long day.”  

Ratchet snapped his case shut, threading the rag through the handle to be put in a recycler, like ASAP.  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” he said, rising.  Drift was, if nothing else, a resourceful mech.  

  
And suddenly, there were those blue eyes, wide and clear and sensual, staring into his, and then a hand, still spreading tingles from something a bit more than the solvent still on the fingers cupping Ratchet’s pelvic arch. And that mouth, curved into a naughty-but-not-at-all-guilty smile. “I think I already have.”


End file.
